


Nobody's Business

by skepwith



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Milkovich Logic, PWP, Terry Ruins Everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-11
Updated: 2014-10-11
Packaged: 2018-02-20 16:53:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2435996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skepwith/pseuds/skepwith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fills in the details of Mickey and Ian’s first encounter, from Mickey’s POV.</p>
<p>"What made him sit there, breathing hard, the tire iron slipping unused from his fingers? Who the fuck knew? It wasn’t Gallagher’s pretty face, with his freckles and his Bambi eyes like some fucking Norman Rockwell wet dream. It wasn’t the way he was always pushing back, standing up to Mickey when it was obvious he didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of winning. It was probably just the situation: a warm body under him, in bed... Like a power-of-suggestion thing. Besides, a good fight always turned him on."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nobody's Business

Before That Morning Mickey’d never even thought of Gallagher that way.

No, really.

Sure, he’d wondered if the carpet matched the drapes, but everyone wondered that about redheads: it was the first thing you thought of when you saw that crazy hair. Even Gallagher’s fucking _eyelashes_ were red. He didn’t notice that till later, though.

No, Gallagher was just some skinny kid hanging around Mandy or mouthing off to him at the Kash and Grab. And when Mickey woke up one morning to Gallagher prodding him in the back with a tire iron, his first thoughts were a) “What the fuck?” and b) “What a pussy.” Kid should’ve got in a couple of good ones while Mickey was still unconscious, not nudged him like a fucking butler bringing in room service. It gave Mickey a chance to fake him out—soft people were the easiest to fuck with—and he had the kid on his back in no time.

He hadn’t expected Gallagher to put up much of a fight, but he was wrong. The kid shoved him back against the wall, then the dresser—he was stronger than he looked. Guess he had a muscle or two on that skinny body after all. With a rush of adrenaline, Mickey threw himself into the fight; but when Gallagher nearly got his hands back on the tire iron, Mickey decided fun time was over and pinned him to the bed.

What made him sit there, breathing hard, the tire iron slipping unused from his fingers? Who the fuck knew? It wasn’t Gallagher’s pretty face, with his freckles and his Bambi eyes like some fucking Norman Rockwell wet dream. It wasn’t the way he was always pushing back, standing up to Mickey when it was obvious he didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of winning. It was probably just the situation: a warm body under him, in bed... Like a power-of-suggestion thing. Besides, a good fight always turned him on.

But what got him, what really did it, was the look in Gallagher’s eyes when he noticed. It wasn’t “Get the fuck off me” or “I’mma pretend I didn’t see your boner, dude.” It was more like “Holy shit, you too?” With a touch of “Hell, yeah, let’s do this!”

No sooner did he realize Gallagher was up for it than he was tearing his clothes off like his life depended on it. If there was one thing he’d learned, it was that when something good came along you had to grab it right away with both hands, before someone else noticed and took it away from you. Meanwhile, Gallagher was wriggling his way out of his own clothes. He was all white skin and freckles, except for his nipples, which were the same pink as his lips. Mickey scrabbled impatiently at the boy’s jeans and boxers, yanking them down over his hips. Gallagher tried to kick his pants off, then belatedly stopped to toe off his shoes. Mickey just stared.

That wasn’t a cock, that was a fucking work of art. It was long and thick and perfectly proportioned—aside from the fact that it belonged on a larger man. Just above it grew a patch of, yes, orange fuzz that looked like it would be soft and crinkly to the touch; the same touchable fuzz covered his balls. The head was flushed a deep pink, and a drop of moisture clung to the tip.

Mickey might have salivated.

When he glanced up, Gallagher was smirking at him, the arrogant little shit. Mickey raised his eyebrows like “Oh, yeah?” and the next thing he knew the guy had tackled him and pinned him to the bed. For a second they just panted in each other’s faces. Gallagher’s pupils were huge. Mickey struggled just enough to feel the strength in the other’s body, which, okay, turned him on like crazy, and Gallagher retaliated with a long grind of his hips, rubbing the undersides of their cocks together.

That did it. Mickey was not exactly known for his patience. He twisted himself face-down and pushed his ass back against that gloriously hard cock, which as far as he was concerned needed to get inside him right this fucking minute. Gallagher backed off enough for Mickey to get on his hands and knees, kicking the tangled blanket off the bed, but then the guy just knelt there without moving, one hot hand spread across Mickey’s ass cheek. (God, his hands were huge. No fucking surprise he was hung.)

Mickey looked over his shoulder and growled, “The fuck you waiting for?”

It was enough to goad Gallagher into action, and in a second Mickey felt a wet fingertip circling his hole. He grunted impatiently and it pushed in, stroking him from the inside. Shit, that was good. Mickey canted his hips back eagerly and a second finger soon followed. He’d done as much himself while jerking off (the first time he tried it he came like a fucking geyser, and from then on it became an essential part of his masturbatory repertoire), but he’d never been able to go so deep or hit so many spots that sent sparks shooting straight to his dick. It had him gasping for breath and wiggling his ass around like a cat in heat.

When Ian started scissoring his fingers, he couldn’t take it anymore. “You gonna fuck me already or what?” he said. His voice sounded low and rough, like it belonged to somebody else. The fingers withdrew quickly and he heard Ian spitting in his palm and stroking it over his dick. Mickey’s own cock was drooling a shining string onto the sheets.

He felt broad hands parting his cheeks, then the blunt head of Ian’s cock pushing him open. He tightened instinctively; Ian pushed in further with a grunt. It felt good, but—a sharp pain stabbed him in the gut and he sucked in a breath. Ian stopped immediately. He reached around and grasped Mickey’s softening cock, rubbing it to hardness again. The pain disappeared and Mickey began rocking back slightly, then not so slightly, wanting more of that nice full feeling. Ian slid slowly in the rest of the way and bottomed out with a sigh.

At first Ian fucked him gently, easing back and forth by inches. The friction felt amazing, but gentle was not what Mickey had fantasized about. Not that he usually fantasized about being fucked in the ass—okay, you know what? The contents of his spank bank were nobody’s business but his own. “Quit pussyfootin’ around and fuck me,” he growled. Ian huffed with either exasperation or laughter; Mickey didn’t care which, because Ian immediately started driving into him with long, steady strokes. He caught the rhythm and they were off like a galloping horse, each thrust making his dick throb and his fingers tighten on the sheets.

Sweet Jesus. His nerves were lighting up like a goddamn Christmas tree, all the way down to his toes. He wanted more, more, fucking more. He dropped to his elbows and thrust back as hard as he could, feeling Ian’s balls slap rhythmically against his ass and making the rusty mattress springs squeal the fucking Hallelujah Chorus. The new angle had his toes curling and his thighs trembling. He could feel sweat collecting at the base of his throat and the backs of his knees, and Ian’s chest was slick against his back. Mickey’s breath was loud and ragged in his own ears. Don’t moan, he reminded himself. Don’t shout. Fuck.

“You close?” gasped Ian, still pistoning into him. Close? He was going to die if he didn’t come soon. He grunted assent, and Ian’s hand closed around his cock, jerking him fast and rough. It only took a few strokes before he was shooting copiously over Ian’s hand. His head fell forward and he groaned helplessly into the pillow. Ian grabbed Mickey’s hips with both hands and thrust deeply once, twice, and then he was coming, his hipbones pressed against Mickey’s ass as he spurted inside him. For a moment he was rigid, his fingers digging into Mickey’s skin hard enough to leave bruises—and, yeah, Mickey fucking loved it—before he collapsed forward with a quiet sigh.

He pulled out and rolled off him. Mickey turned onto his back, and the pair of them lay there panting like they’d just outrun a bunch of cops. Mickey could feel the other man’s spunk trickling out of his ass. It was actually kind of hot, in a dirty-sexy way. Was it weird that he thought that? On a scale of one to fag, how gay was it that this was the best goddamn sex he’d ever had in his life? Fucking girls did not compare. Hell, even the blowjob he’d gotten from that guy in exchange for waiting a few days on collecting his coke money seemed unimpressive now. He should probably be worried about that, but the truth was he felt too fucking good right now to care.

With a grunt, Ian leaned forward and fished the blanket off the floor, spreading it over the two of them. Mickey was going to razz him for being a sap—even if it did feel good over his cooling skin—but then Terry pushed open the door and everything stopped.

He couldn’t have said how long his father was in the room. He was frozen in place, ready to jump, ready to run: like a rabbit in the headlights. When Terry left, he couldn’t believe he was still alive and unhurt. He dressed quickly and wordlessly, all the good feeling from earlier gone like it had never been. One thing was fucking sure: he was never doing that again. No orgasm was worth getting beaten to death. He found the towelhead’s gun and tossed it on the bed, because he owed Gallagher that much at least, but then what did the kid do but try and kiss him! Was he fucking born yesterday? Mickey nipped that in the goddamn bud—he wasn’t some kind of fag, Jesus. A fuck was a fuck, but he wasn’t gay. No way.

He didn’t have a fucking death wish.

Later, when it was dark outside and Terry was snoring again loud enough to be heard in every room of the house, Mickey lay in bed with an ashtray balanced on his stomach, smoking and thinking.

He wasn’t a fag, that was decided. He didn’t act like one. He didn’t do faggy shit. So it followed that the fucking—okay, the _ass fucking_ —was just a thing that he liked that didn’t necessarily make him a fag. Okay.

So if he happened to run into Gallagher, like if he came over to hang out with Mandy, or if Mickey needed something from the Kash and Grab...they could totally do it again. As long as he wasn’t a fag about it, there was no reason he couldn’t have Gallagher’s dick in his ass as often as he wanted. And if they were careful, his dad would never find out. Shit, it’s not like anyone would call Terry observant. Today had proved that fairly fucking definitively.

Mickey finished his smoke and turned out the light, feeling pretty good about life for a change. And if, while he was beating off, he was thinking about red hair and freckles, well, that was nobody’s business but his own.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Use condoms, kids! As usual, Mickey’s language is rife with racism and homophobia. But we know he gets better. (Well, except for the racist part. Er, yeah.) Anyway, hope you all enjoyed it!


End file.
